


Five Times John Was Kidnapped, One Time He Wasn't, and One Just For Kicks and Giggles

by ForevermoreNevermore



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Suggestive Themes, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForevermoreNevermore/pseuds/ForevermoreNevermore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really. John did know better. Honest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sharp as a Whip

John woke up, his blankets holding him as he opened his mouth in a yawn, arching his back away from the bed, then he froze, his mouth half open as metal clanged delicately against a bed frame. He tested his ankles, only to feel that they had the same treatment done to them. He smiled into the darkness, awaiting the deep, bass whispers and light as feather touches. Just another experiment. A body pushed itself onto the mattress, a small creak sounded.

"Hello," John whispered, waiting, tensed. The air vibrated until it was cut by a voice.

"Hellooo Johnnie Boy."


	2. Snakeskin Bites

It was a cuff to the nose that finally brought tears to John's eyes, he knew it would, yet he willed the cursed things to leave. It wasn't hard enough to make the aching appendage bleed, yet he expected nothing less. His captors weren't leaving visible marks; only under his clothes would there be mottled bruises.

Which was strange, seeing as the only reason John was there was to 'send a message' to Sherlock. Why people hated to text, he hardly knew, but he couldn't figure out why he wasn't being shipped home trussed up, painted like Van Gogh's 'Starry Night', waving a white flag, and begging for the statuesque Sherlock to get back at the mean men.

The thought brought a wry smile to his face, drier than a brushfire.

It earned him a kidney punch. The man grasped John's neck and squeezed, bringing the docter's face close, too close, close enough for the expensive scotch on the bigger man's breath to be easily smelt.

"You know why you're here?" his voice was low and grated. The grip loosened, proving that the question wasn't rhetorical.

"What would you like me to tell him?" John rasped out, feeling distinctly waiter-esque. Hasn't anyone heard 'don't hurt the messenger'?

The man chuckled humorlessly (a staple not very well hidden in most 'villain's' techniques John had discovered) and patted his face a tad harder than politely necessary.

"Just show him this," With a delicate hand, the man rolled up the doctor's (that was the point he realized his winter's coat was gone) sleeve, and then rolled his hand into a fist, barring a large ring that really was big enough for two men. It covered the majority of the finger it was on and had gaudy gemstones encrusted in it. And, it had the most clichéd, awful thing written on it.

Snakeskin Bites. It was one of the most over the top things he'd ever seen in his life, and he would've laughed, a good snorting laugh, had the muscle brain not have taken the opportunity to punch John square on the arm with all the force of a rhino.

John hissed out of clenched teeth that were in fact clenched to keep him from getting into more trouble by spouting off exactly what he was going to do to him and what he thought of his mother (of course he would feel bad for that bit later) and how many curses his great-great-might-not-even-exist-because-they're-so-far-away-grandchildren might have come crashing down on their heads one day out of the blue. He could think of fifteen ways to break the guy's neck, but none of them he could do tied to a frea-king chair.

His arm pulsed red-hot as his bonds were cut and he was thrown unceremoniously out into the snow, of course injured arm down so it could take all of John's not necessarily small weight.

"Find your own way home," the man said, slamming the door in his own face. The cold air raked across his coatless (ahhh that make sense) body.

He stood, his eyes watering in the breeze. Scratch that, it wasn't a breeze, it was a tempest of Shakespearean proportions, a hurricane the size of Europe, there for one day only to make the life of one Docter John Watson horrible.

The world was white. There, in the middle of London, in the middle of God knows how many buildings, a winter freaking wonderland.

Bloody brilliant, John huffed into the air, his breath clouding like a brilliant 20's cigarette. He turned, eyes streaming pathetically, world spinning like a snow globe made of shards of glass.

"How… does this happen?" he shouted to absolutely nobody, his arms folded tightly against his chest and his hands folded under his armpits. He walked blindly, attempting to find a way home before he turned into a literal popsicle after what was the most abrupt ending to a torture session on the face of the planet.

John had decided, about twenty seconds into his escapade that the first thing he was going to do when he got home was take a nice long, steamy, curl-your-toes-in-delight shower and check exactly how many bruises he had (he had guessed there were 27).

No, the thought him like hail, I shower in the morning, Sherlock would suspect. John frowned and narrowly avoided a street lamp pole. Sherlock couldn't learn about this, there was no point. Useless thugs. Besides, there was a serial killer out there and that was much more important case… more important than him.

John gritted his teeth against the wind and continued to his home.

It wasn't until his legs almost buckled and he almost fell into a particularly deep looking snow bank that he noticed the limp, the non-psychosomatic limp… the non-psychosomatic limp that can be covered with drunk wavering. He'll act drunk, and that would work as long as he didn't get too close to the hawk-eyed man. If he gets too close I'll try to hug him, nothing the git hates more than physical contact.

Baker Street appeared suddenly out of the black like a beacon, the lights peering through the snow like meek spirits. John let out a cry of happiness, almost hugging the familiar door, then composed himself and walked to the door. He threw open that blessed, blessed door, tottered up the stairs, switched into drunk mode, and walked into the flat.

"Hellooo Sherlock," John said, laying it on perhaps a tad too thick. He ambled over to his chair and plopped down, picking up the newspaper. Of course, it was in front of Sherlock that he realized just how much his punched arm really hurt, so he casually rested that one a tad bit more than the other, and then added a drunk laugh to make his awkward position look natural.

The silence that lay on the flat was unnerving until Sherlock stood and walked toward the door, his porcelain hand reaching for his coat.

"Where are you going?" John asked, curiously poking his eyes over the newspaper.

"To get milk for an experiment," and he was gone, the door slamming a tad bit harder than usual.

John was still sitting in his chair when Sherlock returned. He took of his scarf with an accomplished flourish and made his way back to his chair.

"You didn't get any milk."

"You had a coat this morning."

**Author's Note:**

> This is another from fanfiction, but I'm trying to fully migrate over here so this site shall be this story's official resting place.


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